


Intermezzo

by Avery11



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: Cello, Gen, Love, Valentine Challenge 2015
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-14
Updated: 2015-02-14
Packaged: 2018-03-12 09:35:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3351797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Avery11/pseuds/Avery11





	Intermezzo

 

**London, 1959**

The first time Illya saw her, she was standing on the front stoop of the London apartment building where he lived, a broken umbrella clutched in one hand, trying to haul open the security door so she could drag a pair of battered suitcases and a cello inside. His first thought was that it was an enterprise doomed to failure. The door was heavy and prone to sticking, and the young woman looked like she weighed about a hundred pounds, sopping wet. Which she was, at the moment, since it was raining. His second thought was to wonder whether she might be a THRUSH.

_Only one way to find out._

He crossed the busy street, dodging puddles and scanning the surrounding area for suspicious activity. “Is there a problem, miss?”

She glared up at him, water dripping down into wide green eyes. “Problem? Of course there's a problem! I can't get this darned door open!”

“It is a security door. You need a key to open it.”

“I have a key. It doesn't work.”

“Really?” Illya held out his hand. “May I see it?”

She practically threw her key at him. Illya examined it; it appeared identical to his own. “Where did you get this?”

“Where do you _think_ I got it?” she sputtered around a mouthful of rain. “The landlord gave it to me!”

“Then it should work.”

“Well it doesn't. Try it yourself and see.”

He inserted the key in the lock, but it refused to turn. “You're right. It's doesn't work.”

“I already told you that. Now get out of the way and stop bothering me before I c- c-atch pneu- pneu--” She sneezed twice in rapid succession. “Pneumonia,” she finished miserably.

If she was THRUSH, she hid it well. Illya inserted his own key in the lock, and pulled the heavy door open.

She gaped at Illya. “All the time we were talking, and you had a key??!”

He shrugged. “I had to be sure you weren't trying to break in.”

She stormed wordlessly across the threshold, shoes squelching, her precious cello in tow. Illya picked up her suitcases, which were surprisingly heavy, and followed her inside. She sat down on the bottom stair, stripped off her waterlogged sweater, and opened the instrument case to check for damage.

Illya could see at once that the cello was a fine one. The body was spruce, with elegant gamba corners, and the fingerboard was cut from antique ebony. The varnish was smooth and lustrous, and had achieved the glowing patina that comes with age and loving care. _Atelier Cremone, Parma, 1920,_ read the inscription on the neck of the instrument. It confirmed Illya's assessment of its quality. 

_So, a professional musician._ Or was she? His innate training took over, analyzing the clues that would give form to the young woman's true identity and purpose.

She was petite – barely five five – but her arms were firm and muscular, and the tips of her fingers were calloused from years of practice. _Stronger than she looks._ He filed the information away. Her skin was pale and creamy, and looked as though it would be soft to the touch. Her lips were full and pink. Her dark hair hung in tangles about her face, rivulets of water dripping into her eyes and setting her teeth to chattering. Illya wondered how anyone so utterly bedraggled could manage to look so lovely.

“Is your instrument alright? The wood is not damaged?”

“It looks okay,” she replied with what appeared to be genuine relief. “What a deluge. I had no idea London would be so –”

“– wet?”

“Complicated. It took me two hours to find my way here from Victoria Station. If I'd gotten here sooner, I might have managed to stay dry.”

She exuded a convincing blend of intelligence and naivete, but was it authentic? “Is this your first time in London?”

“First time out of Ohio. I'm here to study at the Guildhall College of Music. And yes, I do live in this building. Catherine Blackburn, Apartment 4-B. You can check with the landlord.”

 _4-B. Next door to his own flat. A coincidence?_ The young woman seemed genuine enough, but Illya remained wary. As a Section Two agent, he carried a THRUSH target on his back. Fortunately, her claim of enrollment at the Guildhall School would be easy enough to check.

Catherine turned toward the hall stairs. “Uh-oh, four floors. I hadn't thought about that.” She looked back at her small mountain of belongings. “I don't suppose there's an elevator?”

“A lift?” Illya shook his head. “These flats are pre-War. They are clean, and the rent is cheap, but there are few conveniences.”

She sighed. ”I suppose it was too much to hope for.” She hefted her cello onto one shoulder, and reached down for the suitcases.

Illya took them from her. “It is the least I can do,” he said. “Careful on the stairs. The little boy in 2-E likes to leave his roller skates on the second floor landing. Oh, and, if you want a hot shower, I recommend taking it before the other tenants get home from work. The hot water tends to run out in the evenings.”

That brought the ghost of a smile to her face, although she was quick to conceal it. “I've had enough water for one day, thanks.”

Over supper that evening, Illya had Catherine Amelia Blackburn thoroughly vetted by UNCLE Security. He discovered that his new neighbor was exactly who she claimed to be, a twenty-one year old cellist from Akron, Ohio, recently accepted to London's prestigious Guildhall School of Music. Satisfied that she posed no threat, he fell asleep to the soothing strains of Catherine's cello drifting seductively through the paper-thin walls. He slept better than he had in years.

*/*/*/

When Illya opened the door to his flat the following morning, there was a marmalade-colored cat sitting atop the morning paper.

“Well, hello there.” He knelt down to ruffle the cat's soft, orange fur, and was rewarded with a purr. “Where did you come from?” In answer, she rolled onto her back, exposing a bony ribcage. “ _Bozhe moy_ , hasn't anyone been feeding you?”

The door to 4-B opened. “Oh, it's you,” Catherine remarked without much enthusiasm.

“We are neighbors, it seems. Illya Kuryakin, 4-C.”

“Hmph.” She glanced down. “I see you've met Ginger.”

“She is your cat, then?”

“I don't know who she belongs to. She slipped into my apartment – _flat_ – last night, and settled in like she owned the place. I thought maybe she belonged to the previous tenants.”

Illya shook his head. “I have not seen her before.” He massaged the backs of Ginger's ears. She mewed softly. Her eyes closed in bliss.

“She seems to like you,” Catherine remarked, and Illya caught the briefest hint of a smile. “Cats are particular about who they like, you know.”

“It's gratifying to know I measure up.” He paused. “She looks as though she hasn't eaten in awhile.”

“I noticed that, too. Unfortunately, my cupboard, as they say, is bare. I was just heading out to buy groceries. She needs to eat, and I'm desperate for a cup of coffee.”

“I have a pot of coffee warming on the hot plate,” Illya surprised himself by offering. “I think I can spare a cup, if you're interested.”

Catherine hesitated. “Well –”

“Consider it a peace offering. Do you like scrambled eggs?”

Her stomach rumbled loudly.

“I will take that as a yes.”

Blushing to the roots of her hair, Catherine carried Ginger across the threshold, and watched Illya reset the state-of-the-art alarm system he'd designed to discourage THRUSH intruders. “Are you always this paranoid about break-ins?”

“One cannot be too careful in the big city.”

She took in the bare bones of Illya's flat – a bed, a battered, second-hand sofa, and a small folding table beside a bookshelf crammed with textbooks and journals. “It's very – Spartan. How long did you say you've lived here?”

“Nearly a year.” Illya shrugged. “In Moscow, this much space would be considered a luxury.”

“You're from the USSR?” She looked at him with renewed interest. “Gosh, I've never met a Russian before. Are you a student?”

“I was. I graduated last year.” He handed her a mug of coffee. “I am sorry. There is no milk or sugar.”

Catherine inhaled the aroma, and sighed. “This is perfect.” She took a long, satisfied sip.

While Illya whisked a half-dozen eggs in a ceramic bowl, she drifted toward the bookshelf and scanned the titles. “You read a lot of science.”

“It was my major at University.” He transferred the eggs to a frying pan, and watched them sizzle in the butter. The cat wove herself around his legs in anticipation. “I heard you playing your cello last night. Scarlatti?”

“Boccherini. I hope the noise didn't keep you up.”

“I would hardly call it noise.” He divided the eggs in half, slid them onto a pair of plates, and placed a generous portion of his own serving onto a saucer for Ginger. She meowed her thanks, and tucked in with gusto.

Illya refreshed their coffee, and they sat down at the rickety table to eat. “Tell me about yourself,” he asked, although he already knew the young woman's entire life story. He sat back, sipping his coffee and enjoying the very pleasant sound of her voice.

“There's not much to tell,” Catherine replied between bites. “I've lived in Ohio all my life. Dad sells insurance, and Mom's a homemaker. I've got two brothers – Sam, the older one, plays right tackle for the Ohio State Buckeyes. Bobby is a senior in high school.”

“And you are the musician in the family.”

She nodded. “It's a mystery, really, how that happened – no one else in my family can read music.” Her expression became pensive. “Dad doesn't think a career in music is very practical. He wants me to go to nursing school.“

“But you don't want to.”

“No. I want to play in an orchestra. It's all I've ever wanted, ever since the first time I picked up a bow.” She sighed. “I don't know. Maybe Dad's right, and it's all a pipe dream. He only wants what's best for me, but -”

“- but how will you know, if you do not try?”

She nodded uncertainly. “That's what I keep telling him.“

Lovely _and_ determined. Already, Illya could feel himself falling under her spell.

With a meow of contentment, Ginger sprang onto his lap and settled in to clean her paws.

“It looks as though you've found a friend,” Catherine observed.

"Two, I hope."

 For once, she didn't try to hide her smile.

*/*/*/

 _D &F Antiquarian Booksellers_ on Portobello Road was _,_ in reality, the covert entrance to UNCLE's London Headquarters. Illya greeted Fortinbras, the portly proprietor with the muttonchop whiskers and _pince-nez_ , and headed for the Map Room at the back of the store. He tilted the folio labeled _Theatrum Orbis Terrarum_ out at a forty-five degree angle, and then returned it to its original position. The wall of maps hummed as it parted down the center, revealing the gleaming chrome and gunmetal facility within. He stepped across the threshold, and watched as the wall closed seamlessly behind him.

“You picked a bad day to be late,” the receptionist scolded as she applied his pin. “Sir Winston and Mr. Beldon are waiting for you in Conference Room Two. Careful - Beldon's loaded for bear.”

He sighed, and headed down the long hallway to the conference room.

“Kind of you to join us,” Harry Beldon snapped as Illya took his seat at the table. He handed the Russian a thick dossier.

Illya glanced at the label. “ _The Super-Bat Affair?_ ”

“THRUSH has set up a new satrapy on the Isle of Wight. Apparently one of their scientists, a fellow named Zark, is doing genetic experimentation on a colony of rare bats there. His aim, we believe, is to create a new breed of venomous super-bats.”

“No one said THRUSH wasn't creative.” He opened the dossier and skimmed the contents.

“You'll be traveling to the island by ferry from Portsmouth Harbour,” Sir Winston instructed. “The necessary reservations are in your packet. Your mission is to find Zark, and shut the project down. Questions?”

Illya shook his head. “It sounds simple enough.”

“I wouldn't count on it,” Beldon murmured – presciently, as it turned out.

*/*/*/

What had seemed like a relatively simple assignment turned out to be a bizarre and dangerous Affair. Illya spent the better part of a week scaling the island's crumbling limestone cliffs in search of the bats. He found the cave, and the bats. He also found a horde of poisonous fritillary butterflies that swarmed over him in the darkness of the cave. The brush of their wings on his skin burned like acid. He managed to escape by diving into the English Channel, very nearly drowning in the process. By the time he made it back to London, he was utterly exhausted.

Catherine's door opened the instant he reached the fourth floor landing. She threw her arms around him. “Oh, Illya! Where on earth have you been? I was so worried!” 

“On a buying trip to Vienna," he lied. "A rare first edition of _The Brothers Karamazov_ in Russian, signed by the author, came up for sale at one of the auction houses there, and I was sent to determine its provenance.”

“You were working? Good grief, I thought something had happened to you!”

“I'm sorry,” he said, and meant it. “I should have let you know.”

”Yes, you certainly should have.” She stared at his cuts and bruises, suspicion flaring anew. “I've heard of bidding wars, but you look like you've been in a knockdown, drag-out.”

“A bookshelf fell over on me, that's all. An entire section of the Romans. The black eye is from a rather large volume of Suetonius, and this –“ He indicated the purple bruise blossoming across his cheek. “– is courtesy of Pliny the Elder.”

It was obvious by her expression that she didn't believe him. Given the ridiculous nature of his excuse, he didn't blame her. Nevertheless, she took him by the hand and drew him toward her flat.

“I'm glad you're back,” she declared softly. “Come on. Let's put some Mercurochrome on those cuts.”

 _She had missed him!_ Illya's heart swelled.

*/*/*/

The first time Illya kissed Catherine, they were lying on the warm grass, watching the clouds through the branches of an old oak tree near the Serpentine in Hyde Park. Her lips were as soft and warm as he had imagined, the kiss a chaste expression of his interest. To his surprise, she drew him down into her arms, running her fingers through his hair and deepening the kiss. The clouds passed unnoticed overhead. They made love for the first time that evening, wrapped in Illya's bedsheets, and accompanied by the sweet patter of rain on the rooftop above.

The days passed in a pleasant blur. Each morning, Illya reported to his “job” at _D &F Antiquarian Booksellers, _and Catherine attended lectures at the Guildhall. In the evenings, they cooked supper together on Illya's hotplate, or went to the cinema, where they gorged themselves on popcorn and chocolates. On weekends, they strolled arm in arm along the banks of the Thames, or took the train out to Kew Gardens for the afternoon. Illya thought that he had never felt such happiness.

The one sour note came from Harry Beldon.

“I understand you've been seeing a lot of that American girl – what's her name, Blackthorn?”

“Blackburn. Catherine Blackburn.” _As you know very well._

“That's the one.” Beldon poured a snifter of brandy from the crystal decanter on his desk. His dour face peered at Illya over the rim of the glass. “Are you sure it's wise to be spending so much time with her?”

“I do not see a problem. Catherine was cleared by Security a month ago. I was given to understand that my off-duty time is my own, to spend as I wish.”

Beldon scowled. “Don't be disingenuous, Kuryakin. An UNCLE agent's time is never truly his own.” He twirled the snifter in his hands, warming the brandy. “May I be frank?”

Illya nodded.

“It's not public knowledge, but Klaus Oppenheimer is retiring in a few months. I expect to be offered his chair – Number One, Section One for all of Europe.“

Illya's eyebrows rose. “I had heard rumors that he was ill. Nothing too serious, I hope.”

“Congestive heart failure. The doctors have given him less than a year.” Beldon steepled his fingers before him. To Illya, it seemed that he could barely contain his glee. “It means a move to Berlin, of course –”

_So Beldon would be leaving._

“– and I want you to come with me when I go.”

If Illya was surprised by the offer, he didn't show it. “That's – very generous, Sir.”

“Generosity has nothing to do with my decision, Kuryakin. I know quality when I see it. I want the best people on my staff and, simply put, you're the best.” He grinned, exposing large yellow teeth. “Why, with my help, you might even be in line for a promotion. Head of Section Two, Europe – how does that sound?”

Illya gaped at his mentor. “Premature.”

“Modesty is nothing but wasted energy, Illya. Seize the moment." He leaned forward, coy as a courtesan. "Think about it – a Soviet at the helm of Section Two in Europe! What a coup it would be! Your superiors in Moscow would be most pleased.”

Of that, Illya had no doubt.

“Opportunities like this don't come around every day,” Beldon went on, his voice low and seductive. Illya was reminded of a snake oil salesman plying his cheap wares. ”I'd hate to see you miss out on a chance for advancement because of your sentimental affection for one silly girl. Is Catherine Blackburn really so important, in the scheme of things?”

Illya's chin lifted. “She is important to me.”

“I see.” Beldon was silent for several seconds. “Forgive me, Illya," he said at last. "It seems I've underestimated the power of young love. Rest assured, I won't make that mistake again.”

*/*/*/

From his hiding place in the shadows of Tokyo's Shinjuku District, Illya watched a half-dozen THRUSH goons drag the Japanese ambassador from the van. The elderly man stumbled forward, blindfolded and terrified; blood oozed from a cut on his neck. He moved unsteadily, as though he had been drugged.

"At last." Illya assembled his communicator. “Open Channel D overseas relay, scramble. I have located Ambassador Asakai.”

He had been searching for the ambassador for the past six days, tracking the man and his THRUSH captors halfway across Japan. The week before, he'd been on the hunt for a missing nuclear submarine off the coast of Sweden, and before that, helping terrified expats to escape the revolution in Rwanda. Mission followed on the heels of mission, each assignment more involved than the last. It had been weeks since Illya had been home. He suspected Beldon's hand in it – a none-too-subtle stalling tactic to keep him from Catherine – and vowed to confront him at the conclusion of the current Affair.

His communicator whistled. “Beldon here,” the tinny voice crackled. “I trust you have something useful to report?”

*/*/*/

Illya hurried up the final flight of stairs. He'd phoned Catherine from the airport as soon as his plane touched down, but all he got was a busy signal, followed by a pre-recorded message stating that the phone was out of service. A chill worked its way down his spine.

 _She's at a concert_ , he told himself, or _studying at the library._ In his heart, he knew it was too late for either.

He knocked at the door to her flat, and then knocked again. No answer. Hating himself for the crass invasion of her privacy, he knelt down and picked the lock. The tumblers clicked, and the door swung open.

The flat was empty. He noted the scrapes on the floor where furniture had been moved around, and several lighter squares on the walls where photographs of Catherine's family had hung. The small closet was empty of clothes. Her cello was gone, and the suitcase that had contained her collection of sheet music. The mattress in the bedroom was bare. Catherine was gone.

Hands shaking, he turned out the lights, closed and locked the door.

Ginger was waiting for him when he emerged. Illya reached down and lifted the marmalade cat into his arms, burying his face in her soft, orange fur. She nestled her soft body into the crook of his neck, purring loudly.

His flat was as tidy as the day he had left it. There were no dishes in the sink, no dirty clothes in the hamper. The bed had been made with clean sheets.

There was a note addressed to him on the counter. It was dated three days after his departure for Stockholm.

_Dear Illya, I've been offered the chance to tour with a Danish chamber orchestra. Apparently, one of their cellists fell ill, and they needed to find a replacement quickly. As usual, there was no way to reach you, and I had to make a decision. I've decided to take the job. Please don't be too angry with me. Things weren't working out for us, anyway. It's probably for the best that I go. Wishing you happiness, Catherine._

Illya's legs trembled and gave way. He sat down on the floor, the note crumpled in his hand. Tears burned his eyes.

At some point, Ginger found her way onto his lap. She rubbed herself against him, meowing softly. He held her, and cried.

*/*/*/

**Copenhagen, Denmark 1985**

“These are wonderful box seats,” Napoleon said as he and Illya settled themselves on the Tivoli Concert Hall's plush velvet chairs. The members of the orchestra were already seated onstage and warming up. “I suppose being a world-famous fashion designer has its perks when it comes to scoring tickets.”

Illya smiled, but Napoleon thought he looked nervous beneath the polished façade. He kept glancing at the evening's program, scanning the list of names.

“I wish I knew what's got you so hell-bent on seeing the Copenhagen Philharmonic,” Napoleon said. ”They're a fine orchestra, don't get me wrong. I just don't get why it's so important to you.”

Illya appeared not to hear the question. He stared down at the stage, his eyes fixed on a woman with dark brown hair, sitting three rows back in the cello section.

_Catherine._

The lights dimmed, and the conductor emerged from the wings. A brief silence, and then the opening bars of Elgar's Second Symphony sprang forth, filling the hall with its soaring, romantic harmonies. Illya barely heard the music.

She was as petite as ever, and as lovely. Dark hair framed a face that radiated a passion he remembered all too well. Her fingers flew across the strings. She wore an off-the-shoulder gown of black chiffon, revealing her toned arms. Her pale skin glowed under the stage lights. Her lips were full and pink. She looked like an angel.

Abruptly, the years fell away. It was 1959 again, and he was living in a fourth floor walk-up, drinking cheap vodka and listening to Catherine play Boccherini and Dvorak on the _Parma_ cello. He remembered her laughter, like bells, and the touch of her fingers on his skin. He remembered the taste of her, and the way her hair smelled like lilacs. But most of all, he remembered the happiness he felt in her presence, the sheer, unbridled joy of being young and in love.

He caught a glint of gold on the fourth finger of her left hand. A wedding ring. _Married. So she had found love along the way._ The knowledge was both reassuring and bittersweet. He hoped their union was a happy one.

The cello she played was not one he recognized. This one was lighter in color, with a glossy patina and a Romberged fingerboard. He wondered if it was the _Stradivarius_ Catherine had always dreamed of owning. From this distance, it was impossible to tell the provenance. He watched the way she drew the bow across the strings, coaxing forth the honeyed sound he remembered so well. He felt her strength, and her joy.

The music came to an end. Applause erupted around them, heartfelt and enthusiastic, with more than a few 'bravos' mixed in. The house lights came up, and the audience began to file up the aisles, heading for the bar in the lobby, or into the courtyard for a quick smoke.

Illya watched Catherine walk away in earnest conversation with a fellow cellist. His eyes followed her until she disappeared into the wings.  _Gone._

He sensed Napoleon's presence behind him.

“Who was she?” Napoleon asked softly.

“Someone I once cared for, very deeply.”

“Loved?”

“It was a long time ago,” Illya replied. It wasn't an answer, but then again, Napoleon wasn't expecting one.

*/*/*/

 


End file.
